One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other
by ThatClutzsarahh
Summary: this was not the Olivia Dunham he loved


** This is my latest story. Idk where it came from or where it's going, but it appeared to me. It's dark. Obviously. Please enjoy.**

**I own nothing but the typos!**

With a few tweaks, the device strapped to his chest could easily become a bomb. He could do it too, while Lincoln's back was turned, while Broyles was dealing with officials and while Olivia was blatantly ignoring him, crouched down at examining the dirt like it's the most _fucking_ interesting thing in the world. He could do with ease, just look like he was fiddling with his shirt while his fingers switched the green and red cords, then all he had to do is press the blue button and BANG! he'd blow himself, her and _them_ all out of existence. Because personally, he'd rather live out of existence than with the woman he's looking at right _now_.

She's all wrong. She's too stiff, too cold and she has this wickedly dark smile to her that sends shivers down his spine. She moves more like a panther now than a lion, constantly creeping in and looking around, as if she can devise a plan without the current help-or knowledge- of the rest around her. She has this malicious, devious feel to her whole demeanor and he wonders sometimes, just sometimes, what the _hell_ had happened to her since he'd been gone.

But perhaps he's flattering himself too much. But that doesn't matter right now, as his gaze is burning holes into the back of her pants suit jacket, trying desperately to scorch the flesh beneath it. He wonders how much of her life has gone askew since his erasure in time, where things went different. She didn't even look like Olivia Dunham, so why would he want to stick around to see if she felt like her too? He doesn't, and he won't. There is no point when she wont even _fucking__pay__attention__to__him!_ He's seething now and if he just moves his fingers a few more inches, he'll be in control of the green wire.

She stands up and turns, dressed in black and white. Oh so black in white. Has her whole life been so black and white? Without gray or green or blue? The world to her is just so perfectly black and white. There are the things she can explain and the things she cannot. And she is not even trying to figure out why the unexplained things are happening, she is just cleaning them up. She doesn't _care_. And it's killing Peter that she doesn't. She is so ignorant to her world around her. She doesn't want to explain _why_ he is here, but rather just ignore him. Because he would fall into the gray category and she's _not_going to deal with that. Because he's not black and he's not white. And Peter just wants to _kill_ her.

_She__'__s__not__Olivia.__She__'__s__not__Olivia_. It's a mantra filling his mind like water, and he's carefully succumbing to it with each step she takes. Even her walk is wrong, her gait is off, and he just grits his teeth together. Because it's the suffering he's caused to himself and now he must deal with it. But seeing her now makes his bone ache with darkness. It's just not Olivia. And as the waves come closer to his eyes and his vision is going fuzzy from rage Olivia is approaching him, her eyes averted and all he wants to do is pounce her and throttle the malevolent _bitch_ until she stops breathing because that's exactly what she's done to him. She's got her dark and twisted grip wrapped around his throat like a thick braided rope and is pulling him up off the ground, higher and higher. He's losing all his power, right then.

But he will not go down without a fight.

He doesn't know quite when it turned into a war between him, but just that it has. As she breezes by him like he's air, he almost takes a swing at her face, so twisted and cruel, just to see what she'd do. Because he _wants_ her to take him down, to press her sleek metal weapon to his skull and dig her knee into his back. He wants her to hit him so he can feel the sting of her all to human palm against his cheek. Because he doesn't believe she's even real. She's the _fucking_ shapeshifter, old model, incapable of human compatibility and emotion. Is she even _fucking_ human?

His fingers are stroking the red wires of his vest, and if he twists them just right, he could snap them off. Replacing them would be a breeze, and then when the next time blip came along he could throw himself into it, exploding everything around him into little tiny bits. He didn't really miss what it feels like to be whole anyway, because it's all so very different now that he probably couldn't get his feet wet again. She brushes past him in the ghostly shell of a body he knows by heart before pushing back down to the ground and shoving something into the soil. He'd like to shove her into the soil, just so she can see that her behavior resembles a child. But he's sure his is none better. And his escape is just a few centimeters from him. He's so close...if only...

He wonders if she'll ever know what she was, what she _should_ have been. The time line won't be restored, it'd be ridiculous if it were because then the point of this whole mess would be moot. So how can he hold onto the ridiculous notion that Olivia Dunham would still want him? For all he knew she could be happily married, dating or friends with benefits with scrawny little Lincoln Lee here. By the way he watched her it certainly seemed that way. But it's not his place anymore, because she's not even _her_. Her movements are jerky and callous, centered selfishly on her. Where did the selfless, fearless woman he knew go?

With where ever the hell he went for those few months.

The ground is rumbling underneath his feet and around him people are shifting quickly. He looks down at his hand, surprised to see both wires and comfortably placed in each finger. All he had to do was throw himself in the opening time lapse and _boom_ this bitch of Olivia would be gone. They'd be gone. She's standing right there, _behind_ him like a frightened child just waiting for it to open. She is reacting not acting and it's driving him nuts. She's not Olivia! She's not Olivia! Faster and faster his mind spins and the rage swirls and the scowl on his lips deepened and if he throws himself just right at the vortex he'll disappear forever again. The wind is blowing the threads of gold that haunt his mind away from him and just instantly everything is silent.

The raging sea quiets.

The boiling blood cools.

And all he can see is Olivia. She's standing there inside the vortex, his Olivia, the version he _knew._ She's calling for him with a finger, waiting. And he wants so desperately to join _her_ because this Olivia, new and _fucking_ improved is a _bitch_ without wings, an angel with devil horns and a pointed tail. He can feel the darkness seeping off her. This is Olivia, black and white as she might be, is more black than white, and it swallows everything she is. For a moment he stares at her, waiting for him in all her wholeness and Peter steps forward.

"Whoa," breaks in Lincoln's voice, "Where are you going?"

Peter shakes himself from the trance, noting that there is not vortex, no Olivia, just him and Lincoln and this robo-Olivia (more Nina Sharp than Olivia Dunham). In his hands he holds the two wires, now touching the other ones. Lincoln eyes him cautiously, looking at his hands, and realizing what he's done.

"Peter," he says angrily, "What have you done?"

And all Peter can do is stare at the back of her head, because it's all _her_ fault.


End file.
